


In A Material World

by AlwaysSpeaksHerMind



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Thus Will Add More Tags Later, Author hates tagging, College Sophomores, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysSpeaksHerMind/pseuds/AlwaysSpeaksHerMind
Summary: The newest intern at Lodge Industries gets more than he bargained for when he’s tasked with escorting the owner’s daughter on a citywide shopping spree. And the owner’s daughter gets more than she bargained for when she meets the latest peon her father’s (definitely? probably? possibly?) bribed into keeping tabs on her.
Relationships: Archie Andrews & Veronica Lodge, Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. Fortunate Son

“Yo, Andrews.”

In the hush of the copy room, the clap comes out of nowhere—quick, right by his ear, and loud enough to cause actual pain. Caught completely off-guard, Archie shies away from the noise and crashes a shoulder directly into the machine he’s just finished using. Not surprisingly, about half the stack of paper in his hands goes flying, and the wild grab he makes at it does nothing except jar loose even more papers. For five full seconds, all he can do is watch his morning’s work flutter to the ground, and no. He’s definitely not cool with that. Heaving a loud sigh, he sends a death glare over his shoulder as he squats down to gather up the remains of the last quarter’s reports.

“Seriously?” he says, irritation rising when the only thing the annoying clapper does is laugh. “You have to do that?”

“Sure do.”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Of all the people Archie’s met during the first month of his internship at Lodge Industries, Reggie Mantle is by far his favorite. The dude’s kind of a giant jackass, and yeah, his family comes from a _lot_ of money just like ninety-nine percent of the other business majors interning here, but he’s not nearly as stuck-up as almost everyone else, and Archie appreciates the fact that _this_ coworker at least can take and make a joke. Sometimes, though, Reggie’s tendency to prank people whenever and wherever (not to mention _however_ ) he feels like it gets annoying, and this is definitely one of those times.

“What the hell, man?” he grumbles, scowling at the twelve or so papers remaining in his hands. “Can you not just walk up and say hi?”

“Nah! That’s no fun.” Smirking like it’s no big deal, Reggie jerks his chin toward the door at the far end of the hall. “Listen, I hear the old man called you in earlier. Special assignment or something.”

“Yeah?” Archie says, checking casually over his shoulder, this time to make good and sure the very powerful owner of this company isn’t close enough to hear himself called that. “So?”

Reggie shrugs. “So I just want to make sure you’re not getting any ideas.”

Archie rolls his eyes as a way too-glossy wingtip that probably cost as much as his last two rent payments put together nudges a paper just beyond his reach. “Ideas, Reg?”

The shoe sneaks in again, and another paper skids away from him.

“You know,” Reggie drawls. “ _Ideas_. Like I’m gonna start ordering fruit trays and tortilla bowls for meetings, or doing your work for you just because the big boss wants to start making you the go-to errand boy. ’Cause just so we’re clear, that ain’t happening. _Ever._ ”

Yeah, that’s a laugh. 

Archie’s forever being accused of trusting people more than he should, but even he isn’t crazy enough to let Reggie Mantle do his work for him. Not that the work they do is all that complicated, of course—mostly just filing papers, answering phones, running errands and printing up whatever they’re told to—but still, he can’t think of a comparison good enough to halfway express what a disaster dumping his responsibilities on his fellow intern would be.

Shaking his head, Archie chuckles as he retrieves the last few papers and stands. “Reg, I seriously doubt you need to worry about anything like that. I’m still going to do my own work, and anyway, it’s not like I’m going to be the go-to guy for all time. Mr. Lodge is just really busy today and wants me to take care of some stuff he can’t. I’m like—second-string errand-boy, not first.”

“Stuff?” Reggie scoffs, digging around in his pocket when his cell starts ringing. “Dude, that doesn’t even make any sense. What kind of _stuff_ is better handled by you than me, huh?”

Shrugging, Archie turns in the direction of his desk. “I don’t know. But I got to get going. I have to re-sort these now before I start filing them, and I’m supposed to be downstairs in like half an hour.”

“Uh-huh, sure. You go ahead and keep brown-nosing away, Mr. Bigshot. But what’s this big, important ‘job’ you got to take care of?” Reggie wants to know, making air quotes with one hand and dropping a pencil in someone’s abandoned cup of half-drunk coffee with the other as he trails after. “Picking the new office paint color? Deciding what brand of paperclips are the best? Filling out a couple of purchase orders for lunch with Bono next week?”

Archie snorts in spite of himself. “I wish. No, I have to take his daughter shopping or something.”

“The _hell?_ Dude, are you _kidding_ me right now?”

Surprised at the near-yell, Archie turns to see that Reggie’s stopped dead in his tracks and is staring at him with an expression that looks an awful lot like it might be envy. 

“No,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“Damn.” Shaking his head, Reggie folds his arms. “You know, I always knew you were a lucky little bastard, Andrews.”

“What?” Archie says, a little blankly because he’s not sure if he’s being complimented or insulted. Or maybe warned? “I mean, why? What’s that supposed to mean?”

The other guy snorts, his disgust reminding Archie for the millionth time in three weeks how much it really kind of sucks being the only intern to enroll in the program sophomore year instead of freshman. “It _means,_ you just landed the cushiest assignment of all time, and now the rest of us get to hate your guts. Congratulations.”

“Okay?” Totally lost, Archie shrugs as Reggie gives him a sarcastic salute on the way back to his own desk. “Thanks…I guess?”

It’s a confusing way to leave the conversation, but there’s not much of a chance to wonder what kind of hint he’s just been given. Sorting and filing the giant pile of papers turns out to be one of those slow, painstaking tasks that make him want to scream, but escape isn’t really an option. It has to be done, and he just has to plod through it at the expense of everything else—including lunch, which he completely misses because he’s too focused on the work to remember to check the time. 

When one o’clock finally rolls around, his day isn’t exactly on the rails to anywhere good. Thanks to Reggie’s stupid joke, he’s now hungry, running seriously behind schedule, and so stressed out over all the emails he still hasn’t replied to that he almost delivers the reports to the wrong department. And that’s bad, really bad, but what’s worse is how the phone starts ringing the _exact_ second he sits down and reaches for one of the emergency protein bars he keeps in his desk. For one very long moment, he’s so frustrated he actually considers just ignoring it, but then duty and the commonsense portion of his brain that reminds him paid internships don’t grow on trees kicks back in again and, taking a long breath in the hopes he’ll inhale some patience, he picks up.

“Archie Andrews,” he says, silently willing whatever this is about to not be terrible. “How can I help you?”

“Mr. Andrews.” The voice of the woman on the other end of the line is polite and professional, but dripping with the kind of steely annoyance that tells him he’s somehow making her job a lot harder than it needs to be. “This is the lobby calling—again _—_ to inform you that Ms. Lodge has arrived _as scheduled_ and would very much like to speak with her father. I’ve explained to her several times that he’s currently unavailable and that you would be able to provide details I’m unable to, but she insists.”

Oh, _damn_ it all. The stupid shopping thing. 

He forgot all about his new assignment during the sorting because of course he did, and if he doesn’t do something fast, he is almost a hundred percent sure to be fired. Or expelled, or whatever the name is for interns who do dumb crap that would get a regular employee fired.

“Details.” Tension spiking all over again, he leaps up like a shot, scattering post-it notes and nearly yanking the entire phone off the desk in his hurry. “Yeah, right, uh—sorry. So sorry. I’m on my way now, just...running a little late.”

The receptionist’s voice takes on a sweeter, even chillier note that tells him he’s definitely near the top of her Most Hated list. “I surmised as much. In the meantime, what specifically would you advise I tell her? She’s very…eager for answers.”

“Um…” He shrugs, nearly tripping over the wastebasket as he scrambles to the other side of the desk and grabs his cell, keys, and wallet. “I don’t—I don’t know. I’ll be there in like thirty seconds; can you just tell her that and stall her with, like, a piece of candy or something?”

Now the tone is pure ice. “You’ve never met Ms. Lodge, have you Mr. Andrews?”

“Uh, no.” He winces, the silence on the other end of the line making him feel even guiltier. “I haven’t; sorry. Um, I really am on my way. Sorry.”

Deciding the woman will probably appreciate actions more than apologies, he hangs up and sprints for the elevators, ignoring the curious stares of everyone he dodges along the way. Reggie said this was basically the easiest job ever and he’s the sort to know, but Archie gets the feeling that if his running late lets his boss’ kid come up and interrupt the meeting her dad decided was important enough to make him cancel father-daughter shopping time with her, the exact opposite will probably become true.

And he has student loans. He _needs this internship._ No way is he going to jeopardize this opportunity by being a horrible babysitter.

Spastically pushing at buttons because he’s somehow convinced it’ll speed things up, he uses the ride down to catch his breath and prepare himself for anything. Hiram Lodge isn’t the kind of person who decorates their office with tons of family pictures—Archie’s almost positive he once heard the man refer to stuff like that as ‘clutter’—so there’s not a lot of information to go on. The lone framed photograph he’s seen is a fancy Christmas portrait of the Lodges that shows Hiram, his wife, and a girl in a bright red dress and matching hair-bow who looks to be about seven or eight. She’s always seemed kind of meek doll-like to him, and when he talked to Mr. Lodge earlier, he was definitely given the sense that she wouldn’t care one way or another who took her shopping as long as she was taken shopping. But now he’s not sure that’s right. The tetchy way the receptionist talked, it sounds like he should maybe get ready to deal with a very disappointed little girl who’s not used to people who work for her father telling her no.

The moment the elevator doors open, however, he discovers that all the impressions he’s formed of Veronica Lodge—a hair-bow wearing, blandly-smiling little kid who sits with her hands folded in her lap, her ankles crossed neatly, and who always does what she’s told except for the times she turns into a spoiled brat who holds their breath to try to get their way—are wrong _._

Very, very wrong.

The dark hair is still around shoulder-length and the dress she’s got on does have red in the pattern, but beyond that, there are no other similarities to the photo. _This_ girl, the one with the red lips and sky-high heels who the receptionist is trying really hard to yell at politely, is not at all the preteen princess he expected to spend the day babysitting and asked someone to bribe with candy. She’s very obviously about his age, easily the most beautiful girl he’s ever been lucky enough to lay eyes on, and when she blinks sort of curiously at him, right away, it’s as if he can’t breathe.

Or form sentences. 

Or _think,_ damn it, which he really needs to do since she’s starting to eye him with one of those are-you-okay kind of smirks.

“Let me guess.” she says, putting out a hand—small, he notices inanely, with shiny, dark red nails—to stop the doors from closing since he still hasn’t budged off the back railing of the elevator. “The intern?”

“Yeah,” he manages to gasp out, hoping against hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open (but almost positive it is). “Yeah, I’m the…yeah. Hi. Are you—?”

“Veronica Lodge,” she finishes smoothly for him. “Yes, I am. And you are…?”

_Screwed,_ he thinks, his heart pounding so loudly as he reaches to take the proffered hand that he’s a little worried she might actually hear the rapid thumps. _Completely._

“Archie,” he says, dimly shocked to hear how normal he sounds. “Andrews. Your dad’s intern.”

“Yes, so we established. Less than five seconds ago.” She flashes a smile that makes him go hot all over, then laughs suddenly, her face softening into something that’s either resignation or amusement. “ _Well_ , Archie Andrews. Nice to meet you and all, but you weren’t by any chance given strict instructions to keep me from going up to see Daddy, were you?”

“What?” he gasps, guilt winging away most of his nerves as he wonders wildly how the hell she’s figured that out. Mr. Lodge was very, very adamant that nothing be said to his daughter about the visitors, and the man always keeps such a tight lock on the ground floor reception desk that there’s no way she’s had time to dig anything out of the two people who usually guard it like the entrance to a castle or something. “No! That’s not what he said at all! I mean, he just told me to—help you. Go shopping. I’m not trying to—”

“I see.” She nods, surveying him critically with her head tilted to one side. “So, if I were to say, step into this car and attempt to take it straight up to the top floor, you would just…stand aside and let me charge the sacred meeting room, correct?”

“Uh, no. I, I—can’t let you do that, actually,” he blurts lamely, jumping in front of her when she starts to enter. “I’m sorry, but I gave your dad my word that I would take you shopping, and that’s like the one and only thing I was officially authorized to do; I can’t just—”

“Oh _,_ I _see_.” She lifts an eyebrow, her lips quirking up as she pointedly glances from the elevator buttons to his really obvious ready stance. Casually, she reaches out and traces a finger over the insignia on his shirt, the soft pressure sending his pulse into overdrive. “You gave your _word_. _That’s_ why Daddy sent you to play watchdog this time instead of Reggie.”

He frowns, hopelessly confused—maybe because it’s a vague response, but probably because she’s standing less than a foot away and the area on his chest she just touched still feels like it’s on fire. “Reggie?” he repeats.

“Yes, Reggie.” She sighs, loudly. “Tall dark and muscular? Probably owns more mirrors than the palace of Versailles? Firmly believes he’s God’s gift to humankind in general and womankind in particular? I’m sure you know him, he doesn’t exactly allow himself to blend into the background.”

“Yeah, no. I know Reggie,” he answers, snorting out a laugh in spite of himself at the description. “Except like, he’s not a bad guy…”

“No, not at all,” she agrees. “Just not overly given to brains, honor, or scruples. Which is precisely the issue. All I have to do is toss a few crumbs to his ego, smile like I actually mean it, and he scraps any and all prior instructions and lets me do whatever I want. It’s all in good fun of course, but it infuriates Daddy.”

Archie gulps, trying to nod like he agrees, but instantly drowning in a wave of complete sympathy for Reggie. This girl has been smiling at him for maybe a minute and already he’s thinking about promising her anything and everything she wants.

Except—he can’t, can he? Without even knowing what he was doing, he kind of swore he wouldn’t. And like his dad says, there’s one thing an Andrews always does: keep their word.

“But if your dad doesn’t like you hanging out with—” he begins, breaking off mid-sentence when he remembers that whatever goes on between the Lodges is kind of none of his business. “Um…sorry. Never mind.”

Veronica smirks, stopping the doors again as they start to slide shut. “You’re wondering why on earth Hiram Lodge would trust Gaston with the job of looking after his overprotected little princess?”

He nods, dumbly. That’s not quite the way he’d put it, maybe, but it is pretty much the answer to his question. Reggie’s not exactly shy when it comes to the stories he tells, and though Archie’s not a parent, he thinks if he were, he’d probably get gray hair thinking about a guy like Reggie Mantle ‘looking after’ his daughter.

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” she says lightly. “He clearly sees the flaws inherent to that plan, and now he apparently thinks that if he swaps Hercules in for Gaston, he’ll achieve some different, more satisfactory results.”

“Will he?” Archie asks, the question spilling out before he’s even dimly aware that he’s asking it. Reddening, he squirms inwardly in embarrassment. “Crap, no; that’s not what I meant.”

She smirks again, seemingly un-put off by his discomfort. “Whether it’s a success or an epic backfire-in-the-making remains to be seen, Archiekins.” Folding her arms, she gives him a long, appraising sort of stare before lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose _you’re_ willing to let me do whatever I want, are you?”

Oh, God.

Archie comes dangerously close to hyperventilating, his face burning and stomach jumping like he’s on the downward part of a roller coaster. _She doesn’t mean_ that _, you idiot,_ he tells himself sternly, fighting down the urge to blurt out the world’s most desperate and pathetic-sounding _YES. She doesn’t_ mean _that._

“Sorry,” he says again. But this time, his voice sounds faint even to him, and absolutely nothing he can do to make it any better. “I…can’t.”

“Ah, well.” She shrugs, turning on her heel so fast he almost gets secondhand whiplash. “Worth a shot. Now. The car’s waiting, so if you’re going to insist on safeguarding the fox in his wretched little den of schemes and contracts, there’s no point in me hanging around here any longer. Barney’s beckons, Daddy owes me for standing me up yet _again,_ and I’ve no intention of resisting the temptation to collect all my dues in clothing form.”

Head held high, she moves back out into the lobby and starts toward the doors, heels clicking industriously against the marble tile. Archie, feeling a lot like he’s been through a tornado or something, slumps against the back railing and releases a strangled sort of gasp. This is…okay, no, it’s for sure not a nightmare, but it is a serious problem _at. Least._ How, _how_ is he supposed to escort this girl all over New York when two minutes of conversation with her has him one smile or long-lashed blink away from turning into a babbling idiot? It’s an impossible job; like, it literally cannot be done.

Not by him, anyway.

Because good _night,_ she’s incredible. Her smile, her eyes, the way she looks at him, the way she talks…

“Archie.”

The call snaps him back to attention, and he barely catches the doors before they shut in his face. Veronica’s all the way across the lobby, only a few feet from the building’s entrance now, and she’s watching him with both eyebrows lifted.

“Coming?” she says, hand perched on her hip. “Or are you just going to stand there staring at the wall all day?”

_Yep,_ Archie thinks, ignoring the glances he can feel stabbing into him as he jogs to catch up with his boss’ daughter. He’s on his way, and this is absolutely going to be the biggest test of his whole entire life.

Man oh _man_ , this is going to be rough.

It doesn’t help that she gives him a funny look when he opens the door for her and says something about how she almost forgot that some boys actually have manners. Because, well—she doesn’t think he’s like…super boring and straitlaced, does she?

(He knows it technically shouldn’t matter, but he really doesn’t want her to think he’s super boring and straitlaced.)

“Uh, where are we headed?” he ventures finally when they’re settled in the back of the fanciest limo he’s ever seen, being driven through the crowded streets by some older guy named Smithers.

Veronica laughs. “Where are we _not_ headed, you mean. When I say my father owes me big on this one, I’m not kidding. He owes me big, and I’m going to make him pay. Quite literally.”

Archie guesses his nervousness must be pretty obvious, because when she glances over at him she laughs again.

“Oh, don’t _worry_ , Will Scarlet,” she says, lounging back against the seat with a nonchalance he just can’t share. “It’s only your first time as Obligatory Escort. I promise I’ll go easy on you.”

He nods, breath stuttering a little when she follows her claim with a wink that sets his face on fire so bad he’s forced to look out the window.

_Easy,_ he thinks, already feeling his palms start to sweat when they go through a tunnel that turns the glass dark enough to reflect Veronica touching up her lipstick in one of those little mirror things he always thought nobody used outside of those old detective movies his best friend loves watching. Yeah, that’s not very reassuring. Because if this is her going easy on him…

“Archie,” Veronica remarks without looking up, “at the risk of sounding like an antisocial park bench-lurker who thinks they’re being clever: take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Oh.” He squirms miserably, embarrassment skyrocketing. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

She kisses the air in his direction, and he can practically feel his knees weakening. _Cushiest job my ass_ he thinks wryly, trying to ignore the way she’s puckering her lips to inspect her work.

_Welcome to hell, Andrews._


	2. The Dress is Chanel, the Shoes YSL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica resorts to some tried-and-true tactics in order to test the motives of her unexpected shopping escort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm posting in a serious hurry at the moment and have less than zero faith in my ability to be coherent in the notes (like, if we're lucky, all the fics I'm updating from saved drafts will land in the right fandoms. If not, well...sorry in advance!). I ran out of time to do a final readthrough of the other Varchie fic I hoped to upload along with this one (plus it'll need to be tagged, and I really, really, REALLY hate tagging so it takes forever), but I'll do my best to be back with something A/V related today or tomorrow. Love y'all, and hope you're doing well!

When the hawkeyed receptionist first informs her that her father is, yet _again_ , sending one of his faithful sidekicks to do his dirty work—if actually spending time with one’s very own flesh and blood counts as dirty work—Veronica is incensed. Thoroughly. From the top of her recently blown-out-and-styled locks to the bottom of her metal-toed Valentino pumps that are the edgily-chic product of Hiram Lodge’s last fit of remorse (the same fit that also netted her a brand new string of pearls).

She doesn’t _need_ her father’s presence to go shopping, of course. She’s always been independent, and anyway, she’s as familiar with all the best stores as she is with her own name. Plus it’s not as if all the stores from hourly to management level don’t know who she is. But she misses the camaraderie that always used to exist between herself and her parents, and since Daddy seems hell-bent on keeping her away from business matters lately, she once again manufactured the excuse of needing an escort for her quarterly shopping spree/day about town. This cancellation makes the fourth in as many attempts, and when she steps out of the limo, she’s determined to confront him about it even if she has to stage the biggest scene to which Lodge Industries has ever borne witness.

But after she eludes the clutches of the front desk, the elevator doors ding open and she finds herself looking into the shocked visage of her father’s latest attempt to desert her without repercussions, and her plans take an abrupt hairpin turn off-road. Because this new intern is, to say the least, surprising.

As in surprisingly cute. Surprisingly hot. And also surprisingly…pure?

That is, she _thinks_ he’s surprisingly pure. He _appears_ to be. Upon first meeting him, one might reasonably assume that that particular adjective is the perfect descriptor for a being who gets flustered by a wink.

Another part of her though, probably the one jaded by bitter experience, can’t help being suspicious of such outward amicability and she begins testing him from the get-go—smiling, flirting, trying to worm out of him why he of all people was chosen as Reggie’s replacement. Within a few seconds though, the truth seems to become obvious: Archie Andrews, the redhead with the adorable smile, shy-guy persona and the well-cut body of a truly devoted gym-rat is, quite simply, too sweet for his own good.

The operative word, of course, still being _seems._

The evidence in support of that conclusion is plentiful, and she notices it repeatedly throughout the day. Beginning with all the doors he opens doors for her—not with a flourish like he wants some kind of accolade, not like it’s a chore he performs because he feels he must, not condescendingly like he thinks a girl her size is incapable of that kind of strenuous activity, but as though it’s nothing more than a matter of course. A...polite reflex. Without complaint or even a hint of resentment, he hauls her rapidly multiplying shopping bags from store to store. Even though he’s clearly out of his element, he smiles at everyone they meet—clerks, customers, security guards, typical New York pedestrians who only glare back, _everyone_.

He even watches the fussy Papillion of one impatient older woman who doesn’t seem to understand that he’s not waiting outside the fitting rooms because he’s the pet-sitting service. It makes Veronica laugh out loud when she emerges in an adorable Oscar de la Renta floral drop waist to find ‘Cosette’ barking at everything in sight and scolding with yips and snarls when Archie won’t let go. She tells him, of course, that he’s free to ditch the nippy little monster as soon as he wants since it’s hardly his responsibility to placate strangers’ lapdogs, but he firmly declines. He doesn’t like to abandon the energetic ball of fur who probably just misses her owner he says, and though she thinks he’s being ridiculous, she can’t help comparing him to her usual escort. Reggie’s always been eager enough to go with her since their first meeting last year, but he also requires almost constant flattery and direction just to make it from point A to point B. Archie’s getting paid to accompany her same as Reggie, but the former has a vastly different approach to the gig than the latter. 

Reggie, for instance, couldn’t watch her model so much as a muumuu without tossing out a whistle or some sort of innuendo-laden come-on. In direct opposition to _that_ stereotypical frat boy approach, Archie just blushes to the roots of his hair and tries to act busy. When she struts out in a gauzy, high-necked zebra-print creation with the _cutest_ pearl detailing around the yoke and hemline, his smile is a little strained and he looks quickly at his phone; when she emerges in a mid-thigh, off-the-shoulder black cocktail dress that leaves little to the imagination and half the sales team raving over the enormous ruffled sleeves, his gaze falls to her legs for maybe two seconds before he’s glancing around the room like the racks of waiting clothes are suddenly the most interesting things in the world. And the longer the shopping expedition goes on, the more positive Veronica grows that there’s a carefully-calculated science behind her father’s surprise maneuver.

Still, she needs to be sure.

Option the first, there’s every possibility Daddy sent Archie her way to make her feel too guilty to talk him into doing what she wants. It would be just like that man to drastically switch tactics and appeal to her sympathies by throwing a nice, shy young Adonis in her path after she effortlessly turned Narcissus to her side. But on the other hand, can a human being this artless possibly exist? And if so, would her father ever tolerate his presence? Maybe Archie’s not at all what he seems. Maybe he’s just fantastic at the innocent act, and maybe that’s why he was selected for this assignment in the first place. Maybe she’s reading everything all wrong and being played like a Stradivarius in Lincoln Center.

She doesn’t know, but since her father’s usual How-are-things-going-mija? call is due any moment, she guesses now is as good a time as any to administer the final litmus test. Adding a wide-brimmed hat for just a touch of vintage glam, she gives her shiny locks a brisk fluff and steps into her discarded heels, smirking at her reflection in the floor-length mirror of her favorite boutique’s fitting room. The black swimsuit she’s wearing is so close to a monokini that it’s almost an insult to call it a one-piece or even partially hide it under the fringed floral kimono she’s donned purely for dramatic effect. Elle Woods can keep the Bend And Snap, thank you. Veronica Lodge swears by far less-subtle methods.

_Right, Archie Andrews,_ she thinks grimly, slipping on a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses as she makes her way toward the heavy damask curtains that dangle across the entrance. _Let’s see who blinks first._

Strolling into the mini-runway, she stifles a laugh at the forlorn image her foe currently presents, surrounded by bags galore in this atmosphere of peach silk fainting couches, faux-fur rugs, and crystal bric-a-brac. If a better _one of these things is not like the other_ scenario exists, she hasn’t seen it.

“Well,” she announces without preamble, stepping up onto the platform and opening the fringed floral kimono like a model trying to wow a crowd in Milan. “What do you think—too much for a poolside brunch, or no?”

Twirling in a circle, she angles her head so that it looks like she’s examining the wrap, but really, she’s watching his reaction in the mirror from behind the protection of her shades. This was it with Reggie…the test that hammered the metaphorical nail into his metaphorical coffin, the one that assured Veronica beyond all shadow of a doubt that she would always hold the trump card. But, just like with the other outfits, she’s not quite sure how to interpret Archie’s reaction.

As intended, he’s staggered—that much at least is painfully evident from the way his eyes go wide and his mouth falls open with all the ingenuous shock of a three year old watching a magic trick unfold—and Veronica’s a little startled to discover how much she enjoys putting that look on this practical-stranger’s face. But other than that aforementioned shock, it’s unclear what he _thinks_. He’s so dead silent that she can’t divine what’s going on in that head of his, and honestly? It’s beginning to annoy.

“Archie?” she says, feigning confusion as she plucks off the glasses. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Um.” He blinks, his ears and a good portion of his face scarlet as he shifts uneasily, eyes darting back and forth like he’s afraid to look anywhere for too long. “Nothing, I—uh, just…your dad. He just texted. You, I mean, your phone went off and I saw it was him. In your purse! I didn’t try to read it or anything. I just think he wants to know h-how things are going?”

_Seriously?_

Veronica catches herself just before her eyes narrow at the babbler. Okay, so he’s still either precisely the guileless rarity he seems, or a dirty liar on the verge of crumbling and confessing the whole dark plot. Yes, she could very well be cruelly attempting to expose a spy who isn’t actually a spy, but what of it? She has to know the truth. She _refuses_ to let herself sink so low as to be taken in by cute boys with hidden agendas. Because really, isn’t it far more likely her father would only trust someone as ambitious and scheming as himself to keep her in check? And _please,_ how on earth does someone that hot get tongue-tied by smiles? He has to be faking it.

“Oh!” she says brightly, hopping off the little mirrored platform and tottering toward him across the plush, stiletto-swallowing carpet. “Isn’t that _sweet_? Do me a favor and hand me my phone, will you?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

His voice cracks in epically adolescent fashion over the words, and this time she does squint at him while he paws through all the shopping bags in search of her purse—which is beside him, in plain view if he would only bother to turn his head. Hot _and_ sweet. Helpful _and_ distracting. A true-blue gentleman with all the deliciously-enticing ingredients necessary to form the most rascally of rogues. He can’t be for real, can he?

No.

Surely not. No one is this adorable without some kind of angle.

_No one._

“Excellent,” she says as he unearths the cell and holds it out to her with an air of relief. Reaching for the lace-covered device, she paints on a quick smile and opens the camera. “Let’s send him a selfie, shall we?”

Before Archie can respond, she takes a seat on his knee and tucks her arm around his neck. As suspected, he’s sturdy and well-muscled to a degree that sets her imagination galloping in unhelpful directions, but she ignores both his audible gasp and the unexpected shiver that runs through her and leans into him anyway, lips pursed as she pretends to kiss his cheek.

“There we are,” she says, exhibiting the photo before starting to tap out the words _fine and dandy!_ “That should sum things up nicely for him, don’t you think?”

“ _Veronica!_ ”

It’s the first time all afternoon that he’s actually uttered her name, but there’s no time to analyze the significance of that event, or wonder at the triumph she feels in causing it. Right as her finger hovers over send, the phone’s snatched from her hand and she turns to find her human chaise lounge staring at her.

“Yes?” she says in the coolest tone she can muster, lifting her brows to mask her surprise at the outburst. His face is a comically bizarre hybrid of discomfiture, alarm, and something so close to outrage that it’s almost impressive. _So_ , perhaps all that placidity is a mask after all. “Is something wrong?”

Even though she hasn’t budged from his lap, even though their faces aren’t that far apart, even though he’s still flushed a blotchy shade of deep pink and he’s clearly a little distracted by her lips, Archie doesn’t miss a beat.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, eyes roving over her face like he’s searching for clues. “What are you doing?”

“Moi?” she returns, heavy on the mocking innocence as she tilts her head to one side. “I’m sorry, did I not make it clear that I wanted to answer Daddy’s question?”

“You know what I mean!” he says, putting the hand that holds the phone behind his back when she tries to reach for it. “You keep flir—and if your dad sees that picture he is going to fire, no; actually, he’s not going to fire, he’s going to _kill_ …why would you do something like that?”

He’s so incredulous over the whole thing, so believable in his apparent indignation, that suddenly, Veronica’s doubt evaporates. Instincts be damned; this Mr. Innocence routine is too perfect. It _must_ be designed to curb whatever behavior’s deemed unacceptable by Lodge standards these days, the whole Sending Someone Else To Keep Tabs On Veronica bit is extremely old and incredibly tired, and why on earth is she allowing it to flourish like this?

“All _right_ ,” she snaps, swinging her feet around and using his shoulder to push herself up off his lap. “Enough is enough. I don’t care how gorgeous the wrapping on the ‘gift’ is this time; Hiram Lodge can take his little double-oh-seven routine and choke on it, and you may tell him I said so. This charade ends now.”

“Charade?” He blinks up at her, mouth still a confused oval and eyes radiating a befuddlement she loathes herself for actually wanting to buy. “What charade? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, this is just beyond ridiculous.”

Irritation conquering patience, she grabs a fistful of his stupid Lodge Industries polo and hauls him to his feet. Her steps strong and purposeful, regardless of the gait-hampering effect of carpet on stilettos, she drags him after her toward the fitting rooms. Predictably, he balks hard and fast when they reach the curtains, gabbling something about rules and trouble and turning even redder when a steely-eyed woman in a garish pink suit gives him a frown on her way out, but Veronica glares the Pink Panther into silence and shoves him ahead of her into the room she just vacated.

“Listen up, you,” she hisses, slamming the slatted door behind her and throwing her hat at the hexagonal ottoman in the corner. “I don’t know what it is you’ve cooked up with my father, some ‘watch the daughter, get a promotion’ kind of thing maybe, but I’m not just going to stand idly by while he assigns yet another devoted little minion to monitor my every move, all right?”

“What?” He stares at her, eyes wide and obnoxiously golden-brown under the fluorescent lights. “Veronica, I am not your dad’s minion. I’m not _anybody’s_ min—”

“And _another_ thing, you male Mata Hari,” she interrupts, advancing menacingly on him. “When you go into the top-floor sanctum later to make your little spy-report, you can tell that man straight to his face that if he wants to know every single thing that’s going on in my life, he’s going to have to work for it himself like a normal father, not pay some ass-kissing assistant he dug up from God knows where to find it out and give him the Spark Notes version before family dinner just so he can make ‘suggestions’ on what I should do instead. Because that _._ Is where. I draw. The _line_.”

“No.” He shakes his head, stumble-retreating into the wall as he edges backward. “No, I’m not kissing anyone’s ass, I swear. I just—your dad said you needed someone to go with you, and I just thought…”

“ _Furthermore,_ ” she continues as if he hasn’t spoken, finger jabbing him in the chest when he runs out of escape room, “I don’t know what white collar fairytale they spun to get you on board, but if you think for one _second_ that I won’t make spying on me the hardest job you’ve ever had in your life, you’ve got a _whale_ of another think coming and you might as well just—”

He grabs her wrist, halting her finger midair. _“You were supposed to be eight!”_

Eight?

As defenses go, this one is such a random, explosive non-sequitur, that all Veronica can do for a moment or two is stare at the agitated shouter.

“What?” she barks finally, ripping her hand free.

“Veronica, I thought you were a kid, okay?” he repeats, quieter this time, though he still looks and sounds kind of upset. “When your dad called me into his office this morning and asked me to take his daughter shopping, I figured she—you—were in elementary or middle school or something. I expected it to be like…a babysitting thing.”

A frown wrinkles her forehead. “And why in the absolute _hell_ would you think that?” she demands, deciding to stick with the offensive approach since the uncomfortable suspicion that she’s made exactly the wrong call is now creeping up on her.

“I don’t know!” He throws his hands up, exasperation showing through loud and clear. “I don’t spend a lot of time asking him personal questions about his family, all right? I just do my job! The way he talked about you, I thought you were eight or whatever and it wouldn’t be that hard. I thought I’d just have to like, buy you ice cream, look like an adult so some pervert didn’t try to kidnap you, maybe get my nails painted if you hated me because my best friend has this little sister who’s about ten and she does that sometimes to get revenge on him when he ignores her, and then I go down to meet you in the lobby because I get a call that you’re upset that your dad won’t see you and you’re wanting to go up to his office, and you’re, you’re, you know…” He gulps suddenly, motioning toward her as he trails off into awkward silence.

“I’m _what_?” she challenges, chin jutting out as she folds her arms and silently dares him to piss her off any further.

“ _So_ not ten,” he mumbles finally, the red patches in his cheeks deepening.

Oh.

_Ohhhhh._

For an extensive, weighted moment of silence, Veronica studies his face. But it’s all for show, really—a stall tactic. He’s telling the truth; she knows he is. She’s lived around practiced liars for so long that she’s too familiar with lying to mistake the truth when she hears it, and this is the truth. He made an honest mistake while trying to do his job, and she persuaded herself into believing that this boy, who her instincts have been telling her has no ulterior motive since the instant she met him, was faking all that kindness.

Which is abjectly humiliating.

Frightening, too, because the reality she’s confronted with now has the words _too good to be true_ flitting around in her brain with almost chilling clarity, and how insane is that? Ten seconds ago, she was ready to obliterate this presumed yes-man without mercy. Is she seriously going to go from issuing threats to eyelash-batting as rapidly as if she’s changing channels?

“Oh, my God,” she says at length. Moving away from him and the aborted entirety of her intended diatribe, she lifts up the hat and collapses onto the ottoman. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m dead serious,” he begins, but she waves a hand.

“No, not that.” Heaving a sigh, she shuts her eyes briefly to collect her thoughts, then glances back up at him.

“Please don’t kill me?” he offers when she still hasn’t spoken after a second or two, the look on his face saying it’s maybe half a joke.

“Right, no.” She shakes her head, restraining the hysterical, completely out-of-place urge to laugh since she has every reason to believe it will only terrify him further. “Okay. Backtracking about four hours now...Archie, please excuse everything you just heard. This is…well, frankly, a small part of an ongoing cold war between myself and my father, and I lost my temper and turned the guns on you because I automatically assumed there had to be a nefarious plot going on and he might have told you to put on an act. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Archie’s relief is visible.

“Yeah, no, that’s _totally_ fine,” he says, leaning against the wall. “But...an act?”

“Yes, an act.” She smiles in spite of herself, the puzzled scrunch of his eyebrows sending a strange little flutter through her now that she’s confirmed it’s not some premeditated affectation. “Turns out I was grossly mistaken as to your motives, and you really are just a remarkably sweet guy.”

Though she—and probably a dermatologist, even—wouldn’t have thought it possible, the blush that hasn’t left his face in hours deepens. “Oh. Thanks.”

Veronica sighs again, standing back up and discarding the hat. “Don’t thank me. I’ve spent a solid seventy-five percent of today trying to systematically drive you crazy so I could know whether or not you were in cahoots with Daddy.”

“You didn’t drive—” he starts, and she chuckles.

“I know I didn’t,” she responds, patting him lightly on the chest. “Hence my point. You’re a rare breed, Archie Andrews. So rare, in fact, that I’m honestly half-convinced I’m hallucinating you.”

Unexpectedly, he grins—a relieved, crooked, self-conscious grin that’s sickeningly cute and contagious, and out of nowhere, her stomach flips like she’s on a rollercoaster. Which of course, is totally absurd. She’s only just gotten through chewing him out for an offense that wasn’t even an actual offense; there’s no call whatsoever for inadvertent heart palpitations. And even if there _were,_ he’s not the kind of guy she goes for anyway. Not ever. In fact, if history is any indication, her usual brand is hot, wild, and vapid with just a touch of evil. She doesn’t go for the wide-eyed, just-fell-off-the-turnip-truck, America’s Sweetheart type at _all,_ if only because she believes with all her (semi) stone cold heart that she’s a little too much bad for a good guy to handle.

That is…she _thinks_ she doesn’t go for the good guys.

She’s almost certain she doesn’t.

The way he’s smiling at her now though, all shuffling feet and friendly bashfulness, she can’t help wondering if maybe she’s trying to write Mr. Small Town off a bit too soon. He’s rather obviously one of those tenderhearted, Defender Of The Earth types who probably couldn’t be suave to save his own life, but there’s something about him—a spark maybe, that tells her he’s both exactly what he seems and a whole lot more.

On a whim, she cocks her head to the side and offers up the kind of teasing smile she’s been wanting (and refusing) to indulge in all afternoon.

“You _know_ ,” she remarks casually, “not to drastically change the subject and brush this entire circus of Veronica’s faux pas under the rug like it never happened, but you haven’t told me your opinion yet. Of the suit?”

“The suit.”

There’s distance between them now, but he’s still standing close enough that she can see the exact moment he remembers what she’s wearing. Once again, his gaze darts down her body then back up again hastily as though he’s committed some sort of crime, and he looks at her like he’s a little bit frozen.

“Uh,” he says, licking his lips nervously. “I’m…not really good with clothes stuff. You sure you want my opinion?”

“Of course, that’s perfect!” Preening exaggeratedly, Veronica tosses her hair with shampoo commercial pizzazz until it drags a laugh from him. “In this particular case, ratings and reviews from the fashion-ignorant is exactly what I need. I already know _I_ love it, I already know the sales staff who really want to make the sale will say they love it whether or not they do…just be honest. Tell me what _you,_ the not-really-good-with-clothes guy would think if you saw me wearing this to a lounge-y, pool party type of brunch.”

He hesitates, and though embarrassed silence is absolutely what she expects from him, a whisper of disappointment wiggles through her when he remains quiet. But then he takes a deep breath, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for combat, and he gives her the longest, most thoroughly appraising head-to-toe scan she thinks she’s ever had in her entire life before lifting his gaze back to hers.

“I think,” he says slowly, his voice low and maybe even a little faint, “you should definitely buy that suit.”

_Damn it._

There’s nothing about the reply that ought to affect her, yet for some reason, Veronica’s cheeks heat and she feels suddenly—preposterously—giddy.

“You like?” she says softly, her pulse executing a sloppy little jig when he takes a small, possibly unconscious step toward her.

“Yeah.” He nods, and from where she stands she can hear his jagged intake of breath as clearly as if it’s playing on a loudspeaker. “You look—I, I mean, _it_ looks really…”

“Good?” she suggests, forcing herself to hold still despite a growing awareness of how easily the space between them could be closed. How utterly simple a matter it would be to move one step forward, put her mouth on his, and just _see_ if the final product lives up to all the captivating advertisements. “Sweet? Charming?”

His chest rises quickly, then falls. “Pretty.”

Right, and now all the flutters are spreading out all along her limbs. Which objectively makes no sense. She’s _Veronica Lodge,_ for heaven’s sake! Not once has she even considered that a third-grade level compliment could possess enough power to turn her stomach into a butterfly hatchery, yet here she is—rapidly slipping into _who, little ole moi?_ mode with a shy heartthrob whose face is almost the same shade as his hair by now.

“Pretty?” she repeats for no discernible reason, head sloping to one side. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

“Why?” he mumbles, the question chased by the fleetest of half-smiles.

“Not exactly my vibe of choice. When it comes to projecting auras, I think I tend to aim more along the lines of ‘sultry.’” Veronica’s gliding on thin ice with heated skates—very, _very_ heated skates—now, and she knows it. Just like she also knows she doesn’t care. “You know—black lace over pink cotton, stilettos over sneakers, Coco Noir over Mon Paris. Little more Gilda and a lot less Dorothy.”

“Yeah.” He nods like he understands.

She bets he doesn’t.

“Not sure I really _do_ ‘pretty,’” she says in a voice she barely recognizes as her own.

“What…do you do?” he asks, so low the question rumbles through the room.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Depends on a lot of things.”

She’s dancing along a tightrope now, playing a risky game she’s not confident she even understands the rules to, but he’s just so near that she can’t find it in her to care. He’s flushed and hesitant, and so completely lacking in finesse of any sort that it might just as well be the most calculated ploy ever, because after all, she thinks, lip tucked between her teeth as she surveys him critically, nothing’s as irresistible to a born charmer as a good old-fashioned lack of charm.

And yet…there’s something else there, too. Something beyond the surficial charm she can’t quite pinpoint, but recognizes all the same, like a shadow glimpsed only from the corner of an eye. An inner fire maybe, burning low and slow beneath layers of bashfulness she suspects are like a cocoon just waiting to burst open. A sort of…not _wild_ streak, exactly, but not a tame streak either.

“You’re a little more dangerous than you look, aren’t you?” she says abruptly, reaching out to trace a finger over the curly L embroidered on his shirt like she did earlier by the elevators. “All boy-next-door-ish.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and she watches in strange fascination as the ruddy stain in his cheeks fans out to include his ears.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs.

The words land clunky and stilted—the kind of clichéd return she would expect from a person inexperienced in the art of never seeming serious. But the funny thing is, she also believes him. For all his naïve, small-town-boy charm, there’s an edge to that frank grin of his that tells her she’s dealing with someone who maybe knows as much as she does about not quite fitting the role everyone automatically assumes you’ll play.

And as much as she’s sure it ought not to, she finds that notion alluring.

When he takes another tiny step forward, she holds her ground and looks him straight in the eye. On the surface, he’s like the antithesis of every boy she’s ever given more than a passing glance: friendly, obliging, endearingly mystified by social stratagems, a little unsure of himself, and the kind of natural-born gentleman current trends say she’s supposed to ridicule and renounce in favor of some twenty-first century Byronic brooder or unconscionable party animal.

_But screw that_ , she thinks.

A restless, cloying, unfamiliar heat blankets her skin as his gaze falls to her lips, and he sucks in the kind of sharp gulp of air that tells her he’s as interested as she is. Veronica Lodge doesn’t follow trends like some Forever 21-clad lemming who relies on Buzzfeed to form her opinions. She uses her head, she makes her own choices, she likes what she wants and she wants what she likes.

And she likes a guy who doesn’t just take it for granted that flirting is a preview of what’s to come. She _likes_ a guy who’ll look at her like he’s ready to do it whenever, wherever, and however she wants, but who also won’t move a muscle if he thinks there’s a possibility she might not be interested.

In other words…she likes Archie Andrews. And judging by how close they’re standing, how pronounced the fast-paced rise and fall of his chest is just inches beyond her nose, he’s far from indifferent to her, either.

Slowly, cautiously, she angles her head upward. The intent is just to peer into his face, but he’s already looking down at her, and she draws a tiny, not-quite steady breath as she meets that ridiculously warm gaze of his and realizes that he’s officially taking his cues from her, so whatever happens next…it’s up to her. As easy as it would be to kiss him, though—as badly as she _wants_ to kiss him—something in her hesitates.

“We shouldn’t do this,” she says quietly, fingers tightening on his collar as though the little knit ridges will keep her in check when she already has no idea how her hands came to be there in the first place.

“We definitely shouldn’t do this,” he agrees.

But he doesn’t pull back any more than she does, and she can feel her resolve weakening with every thump of her overactive heart. God, what is she doing? This is beyond absurd; why on earth does she want this so badly, and why on earth is she taking so long to just do it? Blood thrumming, eyes closing, she casts aside all reservations and strains up just the tiniest bit, lips hovering less than a hairbreadth away from his, and—

“Ms. Lodge?”

Someone knocks on the wall beside the door, and Archie, eyes huge, leaps back like he’s been scalded. Veronica’s unsure whether to laugh at his terror or swear profusely at whatever imbecilic salesperson just scared him half to death with the interruption, because _damn_ it. Talk about poor timing.

_Stay there_ she mouths, pointing sternly at him, and he nods frantically, ruffling a nervous hand through his hair as he shrinks into the corner—and as a result, sits down hard on the ottoman he somehow failed to notice.

“Yes?” she calls out nonchalantly, biting her lip to keep from chuckling as Archie squirms around in the vain effort to see what’s holding him up. “Is there a problem?”

“Ah…well…” The woman sounds tentative, and Veronica knows immediately what she’s about to say. “I’m so sorry to disturb you like this, but you see, company policy has a strict one person occupancy limit for our fitting rooms, and one of our clients suggested that—”

“That I’m in here checking ‘Sex In A Fitting Room’ off my bucket list?” she supplies, stifling a telltale chortle when the woman gasps. Waving aside Archie’s pantomimed _no-no-no-what-are-you-doing_ admonitions, she swings open the door and smiles with disarming cheer at the beet-red consultant. “No. Whatever absurd accusations you may have heard from those who dislike my family, and therefore me…Jillian,” she adds, catching sight of the woman’s nametag. “I have better things to do than one of my father’s _employees._ ”

“Of course, Ms. Lodge, if I may extend my apologies—”

Veronica gives her a sugary sweet, icy smile. “And I thought it was fairly obvious that even if I _were_ inclined to a clandestine tryst with someone who’s being paid to spend time with me, I would almost certainly choose a more romantic venue than this one, but if you’d like to verify—”

“Oh, no!” Jillian breaks in with forced heartiness, already backing away. “No, that won’t be necessary at all, Ms. Lodge. Again, my sincerest, deepest apologies for the inconvenience; it’s just that I have to investigate customer complaints of this nature no matter how outrageous they seem or my superiors will…”

“I understand completely.” Veronica waits until the remorseful intruder retreats before rolling her eyes and closing the door. “Nosy old gorgon.”

“She was just doing her job,” Archie says in a still-cautious whisper.

“Of course she was,” she answers, turning to find him slumped awkwardly in the corner. “Not her. I’m talking about Dolores Umbridge out there, gossiping her head off and sending the menials in to do what she hasn’t the mettle to do herself. The pink woman?” she clarifies, when a confused frown mars his face. “The one who tried to transfix us with the Evil Eye on our way in here?”

“ _Oh,_ yeah.” He stares at her for a second or two, then clears his throat. “Uh, listen, Veronica…”

“I know, I know.” She taps a toe against the floor, eyes narrowing as she plots an escape. “We need to get out without them suspecting anything. How are your stealth abilities?”

“Okay I guess, but—”

She taps a finger against her chin. “Mhmm, here’s a thought: how about I go out first to distract them, then I signal you when the coast is clear?”

“Great, but Veronica.” He shoves something in front of her, and it takes a good six seconds for her to stop brainstorming ideas and realize that it’s the hat she laid on the ottoman earlier, now flattened almost beyond recognition. “What do we do about this?”

“Oh.” She laughs as she takes it from him, firmly refusing to let herself dwell on how adorable his worried frown is. “Well, I guess I’m buying that nightmare chapeau after all, aren’t I?”

Before he can respond, she slips out the door and strolls toward the curtains at the exit with a casual air that winds up being superfluous. The dressing rooms are all vacant, so in less than a minute, she’s snapping her fingers loudly and waving him into the one nearest the entrance/exit.

“I’m going in,” she whispers, turning to go. “Wish me luck, and stay there ‘til I text you the all-clear.”

“Hey, wait!”

Lunging after her, Archie succeeds in snagging her elbow right as she reaches for the drapes, and the unexpected brake-action sends her staggering into his chest. Which isn’t exactly ideal from a getting-back-on-track perspective, because _goodness_. Does the boy ever skip a workout? It seems doubtful.

“I’m sorry,” she says dryly, straightening up and trying hard to ignore the little prickles of gooseflesh running up her arm from the increased level of contact. “Did I forget to say _Simon Says_?”

“Look, Veronica.” He seems embarrassed but still doesn’t let go, the pressure of his fingers warm and steady on her skin. “I know you can basically do whatever you want, especially now that we have to sneak our way out of here, but please...”

She raises a brow when he trails off. “Please what?”

He sighs. “Please don’t ditch me or anything. I really need this internship.”

Right. Veronica’s reasonably certain she wouldn’t do that even if he were just another of her father’s typical watchdogs, but he’s so obviously worried about it that the instinct to tease him is too strong.

“What?” she says, pouting up at him with her best innocent face. “You saying you don’t trust me?”

“No! No, I do, it’s just…”

He gulps visibly, and she can’t help it. She reaches up to pat his cheek, wondering as his whole body stills under the touch if she’s ever seen anyone look as cute while flustered as him.

“No worries, Archiekins. Long as I know you’re not conspiring against me with my father, I wouldn’t dream of giving you the slip.”

“Really?” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-grin.

“Yes, really. Cross my heart, pinky swear, etc., etc.” Tugging her arm free, she directs a quick smile up at him, then winks. “Now. Let’s get this half-baked escape show on the road before Jillian returns and I have to make introductions. Contact info so I can text you, por favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> •Chapter title is a line from Christina Aguilera’s “But I Am A Good Girl” off the Burlesque soundtrack (which is better than the movie itself and yes, this is most definitely a dumb hill upon which I am prepared to die). If you’ve never heard this lil’ tune, give it a listen! It’s my favorite, and it always cheers me up/makes me dance :]
> 
> •“Elle Woods”/”bend and snap” (this info shouldn’t be necessary in 2020, but just in case it is, here goes) refers to Legally Blonde. “Dolores Umbridge” (again, shouldn’t be necessary, but just in case) = the pink-wearing witch many of us hated more than Voldemort in Harry Potter. “Gilda” = arguably the most famous character Rita Hayworth ever played, from the movie of the same name. “Dorothy” = Dorothy Gale, from The Wizard of Oz.
> 
> •Note re: future updates: Hiram, Hermione, Jughead and Betty were all supposed to appear in ch 3, but because it ended up a lot longer than I wanted, I had to split it in two and only Hermione made it in. As a result, the fic length will increase to 7ish chapters, and the POVs may get a bit wonky in the third and fourth chapters (for instance, 3 will start with A’s and end with V’s POV, and 4 will probably do the same instead of it being 1 POV per chapter.) 
> 
> •I am 3 eps behind on RD for the first time since I binged the first 6 eps back in Feb/Mar of 2017; this season epically tried my patience and the pandemic finished off any will I had to put up with pointless nonsense that isn’t at least FUN. If I feel up to stomaching the A/B mess, I’ll get caught up and talk about it in the notes of my next NGSRG update. If not…I won’t, and I’ll continue to breeze along uncursed with knowledge. As of right now, I’m still holding out hope that the writers know very well this A/B storyline features the poorest pairing + flimsiest setup + worst execution of any ship on this show and this is all some deliberate and elaborate psych-out meant to work fans into a frenzy before going “haha, GOTCHA”, but who knows? There might not be a plot twist that undoes everything and I might actually be supposed to take this seriously, and if that’s the case…well, then I’m going to have to eat a LOT of crow for saying the writers are not dumb enough to go down this lackluster and over-trodden path, and we’re all going to need scads of fanfic soap to wash the revolting taste of character/plot destruction done for unnecessary “shock value” out of our mouths. (No lie: if this all turns out to NOT be a dream/Tangerine-type hypnosis/Jughead’s book/Jughead’s nightmare whilst in a coma/another narrative sleight-of-hand twist, I owe the Josie/Sweet Pea, Kevin/Fangs, Veronica/Reggie, Archie/Josie setups an apology for critiquing their rushed, out-of-the-blue development.) And if that’s the case, my next updates will probably be cutesy (core 4 summer vacation AU) than angsty (ten years into the future) stuff.
> 
> •Before I forget: Happy Friday! Hope you’re all hanging in there and just generally living your best life! In this time of uncertainty and endless unskippable YouTube ads reminding us that this is a time of uncertainty, may your snack cabinets be full, your toilet paper plentiful, your Wifi strong, and your family/neighbors as non-annoying as humanly possible.
> 
> •Finally, thanks as always for reading, and/or commenting! I have a terrible habit of taking eons to read and answer comments which always makes me feel like kind of a heel when I log in and see my inbox, but I truly do appreciate and WILL answer them just as soon as I get the chance :]  
> •Oh, and one more thing…*DJ Casper Voice* EVERYBODY WASH YOUR HANDS

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title references Madonna’s “Material Girl” (a true classic that pays homage to one of my favorite songs from my favorite Marilyn Monroe movie), and the chapter title references the song of the same name by Creedence Clearwater Revival (another true classic). 
> 
> *I began writing this back in S2, because I found it kind of hilarious that Archie going to work for Hiram meant he was officially dating his boss’ daughter. I have five chapters planned as of right now, but we’ll see. The last time I said that, I estimated about six chapters and 45k words too few, and I’m trying to not do that again.
> 
> *Just fyi: the weather’s not great where I’m at right now, so I’m uploading in a hurry (fingers crossed it works when I try to post this). I’ll come back later in the day to make sure I finish writing the end notes, though :]  
> Hope everyone’s holding up under the circumstances and that you enjoy!


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